Second Honeymoon

by James Patterson

  So now we had the why as well as the how. The only question left was, what? As in, What now?

  Cole was gone, but somewhere out there Ned Sinclair was still plotting my death. Tomorrow I’d worry about him. Tonight, I was too tired, my brain too fried.

  Sarah was shaking hands with Harris, saying thanks and good-bye. The second he walked off, I made my way over to her. She smiled. I smiled back. Then I leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  She thought it over for a grand total of one split second.

  “Absolutely,” she answered.

  Chapter 106

  JESUS, WHAT THE hell happened to you two?

  The guy pouring us the shots of tequila never came right out and said it. Nor did any of the other patrons at the bar, who couldn’t help staring. Our clothes were ripped and singed, our faces and hands filthy. Basically we looked as if we’d been dragged through hell and back.

  It’s a good thing we didn’t give a damn.

  And after about a half dozen more tequila shots, we really didn’t give a damn.

  Sarah and I had grabbed the last two stools at the end of the bar in what was basically the first place we could find near Saint Alexander’s that served alcohol. It was a small restaurant called Deuces and Eights, one of those “local joints” with dinner specials written on a blackboard and a bunch of softball-league trophies on display.

  “Wow,” I said, watching Sarah throw back yet another shot with ease. “I had no idea.”

  “About what?” she asked, smacking her lips, then wiping her mouth.

  “That you could drink like that. You’re not even Irish.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I know, and I’m a girl, too.”

  “Not like any I know.”

  “Careful, O’Hara,” she said. “That sounded dangerously close to being a compliment.”

  “Must be the tequila talking.”

  “In that case, it’s time for another.”

  She waved to the bartender, who was loading the fridge underneath the cash register with more beers, a brown-and-green assortment of Budweisers and Rolling Rocks.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  She folded her arms. “Did you or did you not whisper in my ear that we should both get drunk?”

  I scratched my head. “Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I remember something like that.”

  “Good. Then stop being such a pansy. Drink or give up your seat to someone who will.”

  “Okay, now you’re asking for it.”

  The bartender arrived, a bottle of Patrón already in hand. He’d seen this movie before. “Let me guess,” he said. “Another round?”

  I shook my head no. “Make it two rounds,” I said. “We had a very, very tough couple of days at work.”

  While the guy chuckled and poured, I reached into my wallet. I can’t say what happened next was the plan all along, but, as with the jack of diamonds in a game of hearts, I knew I had a pretty good card to play.

  “What’s that?” she asked. “Are you paying the bill?”

  “It’s not a credit card.”

  “It sure looks like it,” she said, taking it from me. She stared at it—front and back. “There’s nothing on it.”

  She was right: there wasn’t. It was black, polished to a blinding shine, and had the thickness of a poker chip. But, as Sarah said, there was nothing on it. Just inside it, I presumed.

  “Okay, I give up. What’s it for?” she asked.

  “It’s what it does.”

  “Which is what? What does it do?”

  I swiped it back from her. “Only one way to find out,” I said.

  With that—bang, bang—I downed the two shots of tequila in front of me. I put the card back in my wallet and took out some cash.

  Now I was paying the bill.

  “Keep the change,” I told the bartender, sliding off the back of my stool.

  “Wait—where are you going?” Sarah asked.

  I was already halfway toward the door and feeling no pain. “The same place you are,” I said.

  Chapter 107

  WE GRABBED A cab back into Manhattan, straight to the Upper East Side. To be precise, 63rd Street and Fifth Avenue. Before the doorman even opened the door for us, Sarah guessed it.

  “Breslow?” she asked.

  “Your analytical skills are…very good.”

  As soon as we were in the elevator I told her about Breslow’s lawyer—one of his many lawyers, undoubtedly—who had given me the envelope. The note inside read simply, If you ever need a place to stay…

  “It also listed the addresses,” I said.

  She blinked a few times in disbelief. “Addresses? As in plural?”

  “New York, Chicago, L.A., and Dallas. There were about a dozen more overseas. Paris, London, Rome.”

  “And that card opens them all?”

  “Supposedly.” I’d yet to use it, a fact that left Sarah even more dumbfounded as the elevator opened onto a small foyer on the penthouse level. I explained that I hadn’t needed to stay in Manhattan since Breslow hired me. Or Paris, for that matter.

  “Weren’t you at least curious?” she asked.

  “Maybe I was. But then some crazy female FBI agent showed up at my house one morning. I sort of forgot about it,” I said. “Until now.”

  There was no need to guess which door led to the apartment. There was only one.

  “Wait,” whispered Sarah.

  I was about to wave the card over a little box next to the door. “What is it?” I asked.

  “What if someone’s in there?”

  “Like who?”

  “Like I don’t know,” she said. “Breslow?”

  “The same Breslow I just spoke to in London?”

  “Okay, someone else. Another person who works for him. Anyone.”

  “You’re right,” I said with a straight face. “We should really turn around and head to the Bureau Hotel, which has free HBO.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said.

  Again I was about to open the door. Again she stopped me.

  “Wait!” she said. “We can’t do this.”

  “He gave me the card, Sarah. Really, it’s okay.”

  “No, I mean we can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “What I think we’re about to do.”

  “Which is what?” I asked, playing dumb. Better she say it than me. Sure enough…

  “Have…sex,” she said.

  “Who said anything about sex?”

  “Well, I just did. You’re a guy and we’ve been drinking.”

  “Hey, that’s sexist!”

  “You’re right. Sorry.”

  I smiled. “Does that mean we’re going to have sex now?”

  That got me a big eye roll and a solid right hook to my good shoulder. She leaned forward. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

  “A comedy routine? Not a bad one, either.”

  “It’s called near-death attraction,” she said. “It’s what happens when two people face a dangerous situation together and survive.”

  “You left out the tequila.”

  “That just greases the wheels.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  She punched me again. My good shoulder was no longer so good. “I’m just saying we shouldn’t confuse our working together with being together,” she said.

  “You know what? You’re right. That would really complicate things,” I said as if coming to an epiphany. “We actually should go. We shouldn’t go inside and have maybe the greatest time of our lives.”

  She stared at me before breaking into her goofy laugh. “Okay, despite the fact that was the weakest and most lame-ass attempt at reverse psychology I’ve ever heard, I’m going to propose something.”

  “Do we have to get married again?”

  As soon as I said it I immediately covered up my shoulder. Thankfully, she spared me.

  “No. This is what I propose,” she said. “You should kiss me.”r />
  “I should?”

  “Yes. If it feels right, we go inside. If not, we leave. And never talk about this ever again.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of pressure on one kiss,” I said. “Especially for a guy who’s out of practice.”

  “Already you’re making excuses?”

  “No. Just trying to negotiate better terms.”

  She stepped toward me. We were inches apart, her lips right there. She was toying with me and I was loving it, actually.

  “Take it or leave it, O’Hara,” she said. “Kiss me, you fool.”

  Chapter 108

  I THOUGHT THE ringing in my head the next morning was maybe a nasty little hangover saying hello. Instead it turned out to be Sarah’s phone, which she had placed by the bed. It seems that Dan Driesen was calling at the crack of dawn.

  With one eye open, I looked over from my pillow to see Sarah leaning up against the headboard, the sheet barely covering her body. She didn’t need to put her index finger over her lips as she did, but I couldn’t blame her for making sure I had no intention of talking, let alone breathing too loudly.

  As for my belting out a crackerjack rendition of “Danny Boy,” I was assuming that was off the table as well.

  Sarah listened intently. I couldn’t hear what Driesen was telling her, but it became very clear when she sighed heavily and uttered only one word.

  “Where?” she asked.

  Ned Sinclair had killed again.

  What balls. Or maybe he just hadn’t seen a TV or newspaper since his name and picture were released to the world. Maybe he was simply going about his business like a racehorse wearing blinders. No outside distractions. No awareness or fear of anyone chasing after him. Nothing but the task at hand: my murder.

  Sarah peppered Driesen with questions, the first being whether there was any note, any message, any anything found on Sinclair’s latest John O’Hara victim. Also, were there any witnesses? Any new leads at all?

  Again, I didn’t need to hear Driesen to know the answers. The way Sarah frowned spoke for itself. There was no note or message found, no witnesses or new leads. The investigation, so to speak, was clueless.

  Which made the next part of the conversation that much harder for Sarah.

  “You’ve got to let me go there,” she implored Driesen.

  Never mind exactly where “there” was on the map. I’d learn the hometown of the latest victim soon enough.

  The point was, it didn’t matter if this John O’Hara was from Spokane or Skokie, Saint Louis or Saint Paul—Sarah wasn’t going there. I knew it, and deep down she knew it, too. She could argue all she wanted, but Driesen wasn’t about to change his mind any more than Ned Sinclair was about to forget what Sarah looked like.

  A minute later, after exhausting every possible angle she could think of, she finally waved the white flag.

  “Let me know how it goes,” she said before hanging up.

  I was finally free to open my mouth, but I knew better. She needed to cool down. Maybe a half minute of silence came and went before she turned to me.

  “Casper, Wyoming,” she said. “He was found about three hours ago.”

  “Same caliber?”

  “Yep. One to the head, one to the heart.”

  “Driesen’s going there?”

  “Mainly to address the media. It’ll be a world-class zoo,” she said. “All the more reason why it would be safe for me to go.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “I’m supposed to take a vacation,” she said. “Two weeks, mandatory.”

  “And me?”

  But I was already pretty sure of the answer. Sarah’s look confirmed it.

  “Gee, I wonder what’s on HBO tonight?” I said.

  At least that got a half smile out of her. “Of course, that’s where Driesen already thinks you are,” she replied.

  I surveyed the two of us naked between the sheets. “Good thing he’s not a Skype or FaceTime kind of guy.”

  She smiled again, but I could tell her head was somewhere else.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Something that Driesen mentioned,” she said. “In fact, it’s something that’s always bothered me about this case.”

  Chapter 109

  I LEANED ON my side, waiting for Sarah to explain what she had on her mind. Only she didn’t.

  Instead, she slid out of bed and slipped on one of the two cashmere robes folded perfectly on top of a nearby chaise. Nice touch, Breslow. Quite the life you must lead.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To find a map,” she said.

  A map? Okay, fine.

  As she walked out of the bedroom, I threw on the other robe. I’d catch up to her soon enough. First, I desperately needed to look for something else. Aspirin.

  Breslow had that covered as well. In a drawer between the double vanities in the bathroom was an economy-size bottle of Bayer. I washed two down with a handful of water, then made the mistake of catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  I walked out of the bedroom, looking at the rest of Breslow’s apartment in the daylight for the first time. In many ways, it was what I expected: large, tastefully furnished, with a gorgeous view of Central Park.

  Still, I couldn’t help noticing a sort of subtext, as if Breslow had held back a bit with the wow factor in order to say, If you think this place is nice, you should see where I actually live.

  I had, of course. Maybe that’s why I got the vibe.

  “Sarah, where are you?” I called out.

  “In here,” she said from the library off the living room.

  She was standing behind a mahogany desk, staring down at a large open book she’d pulled from the shelves. It was a world atlas. She’d found her map.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not planning your vacation,” I said.

  I was more right than I knew. In fact, at that moment, I was more right than we both knew.

  Sarah was looking at a map of the United States, finding all the locations where Ned Sinclair had killed. She’d already circled the towns with a felt-tip pen.

  “Sorry,” she said as I reached the desk. “Couldn’t help myself. Think Breslow will forgive me?”

  I looked around at what must have been a thousand books on the shelves. “I’m guessing no one’s going to notice,” I said. “So tell me: what’s the problem? What’s bothering you?”

  “I can’t figure out why Sinclair keeps skipping over John O’Haras who are closer to his last murder,” she said. “That means there has to be something else. Another pattern.”

  “Was that the case with the latest one, in Casper?”

  “Yeah. Driesen had already checked. He told me there were at least four O’Haras who were closer to his last victim,” she said. “Why does Sinclair travel hundreds of miles more than he has to? Just to throw us off?”

  “Maybe he scouts those closer O’Haras and determines he can’t isolate them, that it’s too risky,” I said.

  “So he moves on down the line?”

  “That would easily explain it.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s the part that bothers me, John. It’s too easy. There’s something we’re not seeing, a pattern inside the pattern.”

  “But that’s all he’s shown us so far. One pattern after another,” I said. “All the victims have the same name? Pattern. He kills moving from west to east? Pattern. He leaves behind a clue with each victim? Pattern.”

  Sarah’s eyes immediately went wide. She stared back down at the map.

  “Oh, my God!” she said. “That’s it!”

  “What is?”

  She reached for the felt-tip on the desk. “The forest for the trees,” she said. “The whole reason he’s doing it in this particular way.”

  “Because he wants to kill me.”

  “Yeah. But why?”

  “It’s what you first told me, how you put it all together,” I said. “He blames me for his sister�
�s death.”

  “Exactly. And every clue he left behind on the victims, they were like riddles, right? They all had the same answer.”

  My jaw dropped as Sarah jabbed the felt-tip pen smack-dab on Los Angeles, site of Eagle Mountain Psychiatric Hospital and Ned’s first victim, Ace, a.k.a. nurse John O’Hara. From there, she connected the dots, the locations of his next three victims.

  Winnemucca, Nevada. Down to Candle Lake, New Mexico. Back up to Park City, Utah.

  It was the letter N.

  Ned Sinclair was spelling out Nora.

  Chapter 110

  SARAH ALMOST CHANGED her mind during the cab ride out to LaGuardia. She almost changed it again while we were waiting to board the plane.

  “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” she said at thirty-five thousand feet, somewhere over Pennsylvania.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said. “You can always tell Driesen you were taking your vacation.”

  “To Birdwood, Nebraska?”

  Okay, maybe not. But despite what Birdwood lacked in tourist appeal, the two of us couldn’t get there fast enough. Not only was it home to the only John O’Hara within a hundred miles, but on the heels of Candle Lake, New Mexico, and Casper, Wyoming, it was also in a perfect spot to round out the O in Nora.

  Question was, had Ned Sinclair gotten there faster than we would? Apparently not.

  “So how do you propose we work this?” asked Burt Melvin.

  He was Birdwood’s chief of police and the recipient of the one phone call we made in advance of our trip. After renting a Jeep Grand Cherokee at North Platte Regional Airport, we made the ten-mile drive to Birdwood and met him at his station.

  As soon as Melvin had heard the news of the latest victim in Casper, he assigned around-the-clock protection to Hara, as he called him. Birdwood’s John O’Hara was Melvin’s longtime friend and the owner of the town’s hardware store. He was also a Vietnam vet and an avid hunter, which might explain why the guy was adamant about not fleeing his home to hide from some, quote, “deranged bastard looking to meet his maker.”